Page 371

But as I went to follow Cyrus’ order, I slammed into a shield. Shaking my head, I smirked up at her. “That all you got?”

The bitch lunged, and I rolled as Cy bellowed my name.

Finding my feet, I broke into a sprint, sliding to scoop up my blade before thrusting as I whirled. Good fucking thing, too, because she was on my six like a bad fucking virus. Marlana dodged, those depthless black eyes locked on me as the webbing spread through her veins. Carrson and Cyrus both landed lassos of power—binding her wrists as she fought against the shadows.

Spittle flew as she screamed, canines lengthening as I backed up a step. Oh, fuck me.

Abort, I warned Gio. Abort, abort.

No can do, Commander.

A scream ripped from my throat as a massive black bird dove for the witch. Gio’s talons sank clean through her shoulders, sending her knees buckling. Cyrus slid forward as her hands slammed onto the bird. Gio cried out in agony but ripped upward, tearing through the tendons.

Gio appeared in his armor, staggering as he raised his rapidly disintegrating hand. “The assassin sends her regards,” he hissed.

Cyrus slammed a syringe into Marlana’s neck and vanished just as quickly.

But my eyes were on Gio as he gritted his teeth, leaning away from the blight devouring his arms.

“What the fuck did you do?!” I screeched, staggering forward, hand raised in useless desperation.

“What was necessary,” he gasped. “Rattle the cage, Freya.”

And then, with a gurgled gasp, Gio was gone.

SEVENTY-FIVE

COME HOME, SISTER

AUGUST

“You’re a long way from home, Commander.”

Six months. I hadn’t heard my mate’s voice in six eternal, agonizing months—six months of learning what it was to have my soul cleaved in two.

The first time the sound graced my ears, it was a taunt.

A drawl.

Like her time in Bellpost had been spent beside her brother.

“Ally, look at me,” I demanded, edging one step closer to the hooded archer perched atop the stairwell.

None of us wore masks. Intentionally. We were praying she’d recognize at least one of us—that something would trigger the real her.

She didn’t. Instead, her focus lazily flicked over Alec before turning to Marcus.

“Alvara,” he rumbled. “Come home, sister.”

She loosed an arrow, but Marcus flicked it aside with a whip of air magic. My eyes narrowed as she drew the next—zeroing in on her form. Different. No echo of Aren or Ansel in her movements.

He’d really fucking done it.

“Trust me,” Marcus ordered, extending a gentle hand in a silent plea for her to take it.

Bare faces.

Bare hands.